And in the Days After
by 21softballstar
Summary: Jesus was dead by crucifixion. Every follower of God was saddened beyond belief. The Apostles were confused and scared for their life. But then, Mary of Magdala visited the tomb on Sunday morning..."And in the Days After" begins that Sunday morning at the resurrection scene, with different people's POV. Enjoy :) Comments accepted! Cover photo by Simon Dewey.
1. Hebrew Dictionary

***Thanks for clicking on my story! I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you have a suggestion for another person's POV I could write, let me know! If you have any suggestions, let me know! And mistakes in grammar, that would be great too :P**

 ***Please, if you are going to leave a comment, be nice about it. If you don't like Bible fanfiction or even don't believe in God, be courteous to what you are saying and what I have written. ("I'm only human!" lol I just had to say that)**

 ***I'm writing these new chapters slooooooooooooooooooooooowly. I have a new puppy now (Great Dane!) as well as 7 subjects in school and an AP class and an AP exam I have to study for almost all the time :/ Not fun, I know. I'd rather be writing, but hey. So the chapters will come eventually! :)**

Hebrew Dictionary

It is know that Jesus spoke Aramaic, Hebrew, maybe some Latin, and even some Greek. Yet I am going to be using Hebrew as his main source of speaking since that is more well-known than Aramaic and easier to research for pronunciation.

*The boldness of some letters is used to emphasize that certain part in the word

 _Adonai Elohai—_ The Lord my God (pronounced a-doe-nie, el-oh-hi)

 _Ani ohevet otcha—_ I love you (pronounced a-nee oh-hev-a o-twa)

 _Bat sheli—_ My daughter (pronounced bat shelly)

 _Bevakasha—_ Please (pronounced bev-a-kasha)

 _Echad—_ One (pronounced eh-khad)

 _Ken—_ Yes (pronounced k-en)

 _Lekh mipo—_ Go away (pronounce lek mi- **po** )

 _Lo—_ No (pronounced lo)

 _Mah karah—_ What's wrong? (pronounced mah kare-ahh)

 _Ma nishma—_ How are you? (pronounced ma-nishma)

 _Mayim_ —Water (pronounced mah-yeem)

 _Miyad ekhzor—_ I'll be right back (pronounced mee-yad eck-zore)

 _Ima—_ Mother (pronounced ee-mah)

 _Rabbouni—_ Teacher (pronounced

 _Salach li—_ Forgive me (pronounced sa-lak lee)

 _Shisha—_ Six (pronounced shee- **sha** , masculine version of 6)

 _Shloshah—_ Three (pronounced shay-lo-sha)

 _Shnai'yim—_ Two (pronounced sh-nym)

 _Slih'a—_ Sorry (pronounced slee-ha)

 _Tamshikh—_ Go on (pronounced tam- **shikh** )

 _Toda—_ Thank you (pronounced toh-dah)

 _Tov—_ Good (pronounced tov)

 _Yeshua_ —Jesus (pronounced yesh-oo-ah)


	2. Visit to the Tomb

Visit to the Tomb

 **S** adness stretched across the land. Darkness covered everything as if blanketed in some black shroud. Plants and leaves rustled in the slight breeze. An owl hooted, calling out and breaking the heavy silence. The sun began to peak over the hills somewhere far off, an orange glow attempting to brighten the mood. Flowers tipped their heads towards the bit of warmth, hoping to grasp a moment of the sun's shadow.

No one was in the area. That is, no one but three women. Those three women each carried a jar of spices, their walk labored as they picked their way along the rocky path. No one said anything. They simply walked, a certain destination in mind.

 **T** he sun was slowly rising over the hills, yet Mary of Magdala wished it wasn't. She wished the sun would go away. The sun was too happy, and everything else was so sad. No one spoke as they walked the trail to the tomb. Not her, not Mary the mother of James, and not Salome. Mary almost wished for conversation—something to take her mind off the task soon to come. Yet she didn't know what to say. If she tried, she'd probably break down in tears.

Suddenly, Mary could see it. Right there before her. The tomb. The tomb that held her Savior's body—unmoving, unbreathing. But something was different…

Almost as if realization struck her in the face, Mary dropped the jar of spices. It shattered onto the rocks, the liquid spilling over her bare feet while the aroma overpowered the air. She fell to the ground, the jagged rocks digging into her knees, yet she hardly felt the pain.

"Mary, what it is?" Salome asked.

She obviously didn't see what Mary was seeing. Why couldn't she see? Was Mary of Magdala insane? Was this all a horrible dream? Hoping so, Mary pointed towards the tomb, still somewhat a distance off.

The other two gasped, almost dropping the jars they carried just as Mary had.

"Oh, Mary…" the mother of James cried. "What has happened?"

"The Romans?" Salome wondered.

Unable to speak, Mary regained her equilibrium. She quickly picked her way along the rocky path, stepping in places that wouldn't cut her feet. She left her two friends standing behind her and only focused on one task—reaching the tomb.

When she did, it was like some horrible dream had taken place in three days' time. First, her Lord was beaten, scourged, and crucified before her very eyes, and now this. She could still see the blood gushing forth from his healing hands as the soldiers hammered the nails into them. She could still hear his cry to his Father to have mercy on those who persecuted him... She didn't know if she would ever be able to erase those memories from her mind.

And now this incident only brought forth more horrid thoughts. She remembered only two days before how she had fought and cried for her Lord, and how Nicodemus had dragged her out of the tomb. Then she remembered the large stone being rolled over the entrance, separating her from her Lord indefinitely.

But that stone was no more, for it was cracked in two, lying on the ground. Mary didn't know how this could have happened. How had the Romans managed to move the stone, and somehow break it in two clean pieces? Or had it not been the Romans? Bandits? Overcome with grief at the thought of criminals destroying the body of her Lord, she fell to the ground and covered her eyes. She shook uncontrollably as the tears began falling from her cheeks. She wailed so loudly, she hardly heard the voice call her.

"Woman."

Glancing up through tears, Mary spotted two men sitting atop the tomb. Had they been there all this time? No, couldn't have been, for Mary would have noticed the luminescent white glow coming from them. She didn't see their faces, even, for the glow was so powerful. It was as if lightning stood beside them. She simply saw their garments and their body shape that informed her they were, indeed, humans.

"Who are you?" Mary called out through her tears.

Instead of answering herquestion, the voice asked, "Woman, why are you weeping? Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen!"

The other figure spoke up, saying, "Remember how he told you, while he was still with you in Galilee: 'The Son of Man must be delivered over to the hands of sinners, be crucified, and on the third day be raise again'. Now go, tell his Apostles he lives."

Then, the glowing persons were gone.

Shocked, Mary turned around. Her two friends, Salome and Mary the mother of James, were also on their knees, as awestruck as she.

"Can it be?" Salome asked. "Could…could it be true?"

The mother of James said, "I don't know. We have to go tell Peter. Peter would want to know about this. Mary, are you coming?"

Mary of Magdala couldn't believe they were acting so normal. It was as if this was just another ordinary day, as if they had not seen the glowing persons before her telling the tale of how the King of kings lived. They did see that, didn't they? They had to, for why else would they be wanting to go speak to Peter?

Mary shook her head.

"Please…" Salome pleaded.

" _No_ ," Mary commanded, shaking her head more vigorously. She was only sure that the two females had left her once she heard their footfall slowly become silent.

But Mary didn't follow them. How could she? How could she leave this tomb and proclaim to John and Peter and everyone else that Jesus was alive? A fact she did not even know? Mary had _seen_ Jesus die. She had watched as those nails were hammered into his hands. She watched the blood spatter and drip from his flash. She had heard his cries of pain and pleading.

Then, she'd heard him say his final words, and she had watched him give his last breath. She'd even wept over his holy feet, the blood from them smearing on her face. Then she'd witnessed him placed in the tomb. This very tomb right before her. And now she was supposed to believe that he was alive? After all of that pain and grief from Friday and Saturday, to Sunday morning, she was expected to believe all of that was for nothing?

Friday night. Oh, how that had been one awful night. She didn't recall sleeping for one minute. Or maybe she had collapsed in exhaustion? She didn't quite remember. She only remember walking away from that tomb. Away from her Lord. Never in her years of being his disciple had she thought she would walk away from her Lord. But she had.

And now, when she was returning to ask for forgiveness and offer spices, two figures told her he was alive? As in, her weeping, her grieving, and all the screaming she had done had been for nothing? Her turning away had been forgotten?

It didn't sound right. Mary knew Jesus could do anything, but he was _dead._ And not only dead, but missing. She supposed she should be rejoicing and believing and telling all, as Salome and the other Mary were going to do right now, but Mary just couldn't. She was too emotionally unstable to just jump up and say, "He's alive!" She couldn't even muster up the strength to whisper it, or think it, for it did seem impossible.

Thoughts began rushing through her brain, mixing with common sense and feelings. Maybe she had come to the tomb alone. Maybe Salome and Mary weren't even with her. Had she even left the tomb Friday eve? Or had she simply collapsed and remained here since then? All through Saturday? She honestly admitted she didn't remember much of Saturday, but weeping and silence from most of her companions. Maybe they had come to visit her at this tomb she knelt at.

Numerous possibilities bubbled up in Mary's mind. Maybe the Romans had done something with Jesus' body. They crucified him, then, to mock him even more, decided to steal his body. Now that she thought about it, it wouldn't be so difficult for the large rock to collapse on the ground and break in two. Surely some Roman soldiers could crack it in half, kidnap the body of her Lord, and hide him away some away?

 _Hide him away._ Oh, how the thought stung Mary's soul. Where was her Lord? Lying on the ground somewhere, buzzards flying above, circling? Wrapped in a cloth, somewhere in the vicinity of the Romans? How would Mary retrieve his body then?

Pondering how she would accomplish such as difficult task, Mary didn't notice the gardener walking from around the tomb.

Jumping up, Mary ran to the man and folded her hands, pleading, "Sir, if you have taken him tell me where he is! _Bevakasha!_ "

She bowed her head and closed her eyes, trying to keep herself from crying.

Then, something happened. Mary almost felt drawn to this man. The tears on her cheeks dried. She felt a great weight lifted off her shoulders. A feeling of love enveloped her like something she had never known. It almost…it almost felt like it had when Mary's seven demons had been driven out of her. Then, she had felt loved and accepted and adored.

And she felt that way now.

Glancing up towards the face of the gardener, she realized for the first time that she couldn't see him appearances very well. He appeared blurry. Unclear.

Then he said, in a voice so rich and familiar, " _Bat sheli,_ Mary."

At that moment, his face become clear and recognizable. She saw his blue-green eyes. She saw his shoulder-length brown hair. She saw his beard. She saw his clean, smooth, unwounded skin. She saw, clearly now, the brightened white garment he wore, and the Love that surrounded him.

" _Rabbouni_."

Overcome, Mary collapsed on the ground, not daring to look up into the caring, loving, and forgiving eyes of her Savior and Lord who was, indeed, alive. It wasn't even a question as to whether this was a dream, for, she knew, this was _real._ She felt so horrible. She had doubted and convinced herself he had been killed, for she had seen it happen. But why had she doubted? " _Oh you, of little faith, why do you doubt?"_ The words Jesus had once said to Peter entered her mind, as if he was saying them to her right now.

Begging for forgiveness, Mary, not yet looking up, reached her hand out in order to stroke the feet of her Lord.

Yet Jesus prevented her.

"Mary, don't touch me, for I have not yet risen to the Father. Go on, now, and tell the Apostles that I am alive. And believe."

And then, he was gone. Dumbfounded yet incredibly happy, Mary jumped to her feet, turned herself around, and ran back to Jerusalem.

 ** _R_** _omans. Soldiers. Weapons. Sword and scabbard. Fighting. Peter, James, John, Lord. A crow. A horrid crow. Calling out, mocking him, shouting, "Follower of Jesus? Ha! Look at yourself! You're a wretch. A traitor. A hypocrite. Guilty of betrayal! No worse off than Judas! Kill yourself! Weep, sob! You betrayed the Son of God, wretched one!" The pain. Oh, the pain. Weeping. How long had he wept? It seemed like forever. How long had he felt like a betrayer? How long had he felt like he let his Lord down? Disappointed him? Oh, no, wait. Peter still felt that way. He still felt awful. He still felt like a betrayer. Not like one. He was one. He was a betrayer. Jesus' rock? No, Jesus' enemy._

 _"_ _Kill yourself, Wretched One! Why live like this forever? Why go on? Why endure the pain when you can end it all? End your life, Peter. Peter!"_

"Peter wake up!"

Peter startled awake. He glanced around the room, staring in each one of the faces of his fellow Apostles—all but Judas Ischariot. He saw the emotion etched on their faces. Fear. Worry. Sadness. Anger. He had each one of those emotion inside of him now.

"What?" he asked, as he stood himself up, dusting the dirt off his tunic and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Mary's back," John said. "And she has news." He glanced towards the three women standing before them, all of them doubled over, breathing heavily, and gasping for air.

"What is it?" Peter asked as he walked over to Mary of Magdala, placing his arm around her and bending over to examine her face. She straightened.

"He's alive!"

"Who's alive?" Philip asked from across the room, his hands slowly being dragged off his face in an exasperated way.

"Jesus!" Mary of Magdala said, her eyes aglow, her face gleaming with happiness.

They laughed. All ten of them (but Peter) laughed at Mary. The first laugh since that Friday. And they had good reason to. Jesus? Alive? Yeah, sure.

Mary didn't led up, though. "I'm telling you. I _saw_ him! He spoke to me and told me to come tell you."

Peter tried to calm her. "Mary, you're probably just tired. Where are the spices?"

She hung her head. "I accidentally dropped the jars. They broke on the rocks."

"Well there goes money well wasted…" someone whispered from behind, and Peter instantly spat, "Quiet!"

Mary glared back at the other Apostles, still not calming down, but now growing angrier. Salome and the other Mary watched her. "The only reason I _dropped_ the jars was because of what I saw. And what I saw—"

" _Think_ you saw…" Philip whispered.

Mary gritted her teeth. "What I _saw_ was the stone cracked. The stone that was in front of the tomb was simply…broken! The guards were gone, and the stone was laying on the ground in two peices."

"Impossible!" Philip spat back. "You expect us to believe that the guards were gone, the stone is rolled away and broken in two, and Jesus is alive and well?"

"I don't expect you to believe anything. I expect you to have faith. Isn't that what Jesus has always told us? 'If you have faith the size of a mustard seed'—"

"Yeah, well Jesus was here when he said that, not murdered by the Romans."

Mary gave up on Philip and turned towards Peter. "Peter, please. Come with me. See the tomb for yourself. If you don't believe then…fine. But please, come."

Nathanael cut in and quietly said, "Mary, we are in this room _hiding._ It's Passover. Caiphas is angry with all of the followers of Jesus. We can't just go walking around in the street. They will capture us and think of some way to imprison us."

Mary shook her head from side to side, trying to hide her anger, Peter saw. "I'm shocked at you, Nathanael. Shocked at all of you! Jesus is alive and waiting for us! Don't you think he was scared when he was being beaten? Hanging on the cross to die? Don't you think he wanted to hide from the Romans, too? But he didn't! And now he's alive and wanting you all to just have faith! Please!"

Peter heard enough. "All right. I'm coming."

John stuttered. "But-but you can't go alone."

"Then come with me."

John glanced around the room as everyone else glared at him. Then he turned back towards Peter, nodded, and said, "Fine."

The three hurried out of the room and locked the door behind them.

 **T** his was ridiculous. He didn't even want to admit aloud, because Mary was so determined how right she was, but John couldn't help but want to explain to her that due to her emotional state over the past few days, it was most likely that she saw only what she wanted to see—Jesus alive.

And besides, Jesus had distinctly instructed John to care for his mother, and if he only meant to return after three days, why even ask of him such as thing? John had enough to worry about himself—the Romans, his faith, what to do—and now he needed to care for Mary the Mother. He was honored, yes, but stressed as well. Why put him through that if Jesus would simply "rise from the dead" two days after? Jesus had been gone much longer before. He'd traveled many places, but then he'd only kissed his mother farewell, ask the neighbors to check up on her, and then leave. He'd been gone months those times and seemed as though the Mother could care for herself. But three days? Really? Sure, she was emotionally unstable, but still…

He grit his teeth. It simply didn't make sense! Was this some sort of punishment? John had been in the garden with him—he'd fallen asleep, yes—and seen the soldiers beat him, but what had John done? While Peter fought for his Lord, John hid in the shadows. And what had John done while Caiphas spat at Jesus and accused him of blasphemy? Stood there and watched. Same with the scourging. Same with the crucifixion. He'd watched. He'd wondered why. He'd turned away. Yes, he'd turned away. He remembered—barely—when his Lord was laid in the tomb. He remembered wondering what he would do now—How would he care for the Mother? He remembered asking God for help, but then he'd scoffed. Jesus was dead. He couldn't help him now. Jesus—his very best friend—had died. Just like that. Left John alone. Didn't Jesus know he didn't have really anyone? But he didn't seem to care, and he was dead, so why should John even ask him for help? What could he do? Nothing.

Surely with those thoughts John was having, he was being punished. How? He didn't quite know. Maybe this was all a dream…

He scoffed. _Ken._ Sure.

 **F** ishing. Peter remembered fishing. And oddly enough, as he ran with John and Mary of Magdala towards the tomb, that's all he could think about—was fishing. Not Jesus. Not Mary. Not God. But fish.

Maybe it was because he'd first met Jesus while fishing. Casting the nets out into the sea effortlessly really. All day, all night long. No fish. Not even one. How he had been frustrated each time he reeled in his net, only for it to be light and empty!

Then that man had come along. Peter had scoffed at him first. He'd seen him watching on the shore—just staring as Peter mumbled under his breath and threw his net into the water once again, his back aching.

Finally ready to give up, Peter plopped down in his boat, ran his hands through his hair, and cursed under his breath. Only to his right did he then hear a commotion in the water. That man—that one that had been watching him for an hour—was chest-high in the sea, his arm outstretched to Peter.

"Going to give me a hand?" he'd asked.

Bewildered, Peter spat, "I can't just let you climb into my boat…"

"You're right. You can help me."

Aggravated, Peter grabbed the man's hand and pulled him in. The man collapsed on the boat, threw his head back in laughter, then adjusted himself in a more comfortable position. He then sat there and stared. Right at Peter. Peter found that very uncomfortable.

"What?"

"You done fishing for the day?"

"Ha! I've been fishing all day _and_ all night. Yesterday, too. And look what I have to show for it. Nothing. I wouldn't call it fishing. I'd call it a waste of yet another day of my life."

The man shrugged. "Cast your net over there on the side."

He scoffed. He really did. Did that loon not just hear him? _He'd been fishing for days._ And with nothing to show for it.

"Well?" the stranger asked.

Peter sigh loudly, but grabbed his net once again, and heaving, tossed it over into the water. He tightened the string a tad, so he could feel if there was any pressure put in the net—not that he expected any.

But he _did_ feel pressure. The string tightened around his fingers, so he snapped it in order to close the net, and pulled with all his might. Oh, the weight! He could hardly even lift it. The net slowly began appearing over the water, hundreds of little fish entrapped within. He laughed aloud in excitement and hurried to grab the net with his bare hands and pull it into his boat. He dumped the fish into buckets, and, without hesitation, threw the net out to the water once again. In seconds, there was pressure on the line, and Peter had another net full of fish.

After a few more casts, Peter's entire boat was overflowing with fish. There were even some still wiggling around near his feet, their tails flipping. He sat down, breathing heavily.

He only then remembered the man before him.

"How…"

The man smiled, then came closer to Peter. So close, Peter could see very clearly into his face. Though he'd never met the man before, he felt a strange friendship towards him already.

"Peter. You have caught many fish now. But I promise you, if you come and follow me, you will not catch fish. You will be catching men. Will you follow me?"

 _"_ _Will you follow me?"_ Peter had tried his best. He'd failed at times, yes, (he didn't even want to think about that crow…) but that day, he'd devoted his life to whom he knew to be the Savior. Jesus had never even directly told him he was God until weeks after that first account. But somehow, Peter just knew.

And he knew, that if there was anything God would _not_ do, it was lie. Or even have Mary of Magdala think such thoughts of a resurrection without them at least being partially true.

Peter had faith, yes. Not a little faith. No. He did not want Jesus to think of him as lacking in faith. He was tired of letting Jesus down—walking on the water, the betrayal—so no way would he ever have little faith again—

"Hey!" Peter ran directly into the back of John as his friend stopped abruptly in his tracks.

They were at the tomb.

Peter didn't even remember them reaching it…had John been standing there long? Mary of Magdala stood near him, also, staring at the giant stone cracked in two. Just as she had said.

Excited at the possibilities, Peter pushed past John and ran right into the tomb. Instead of seeing the body of Jesus lying there, covered, he saw two separate cloths—the linens and the face cloth. The face cloth was not rolled up neatly with the linen ones, but folded over to the side, at a separate place. Peter couldn't even configure the meaning behind that.

But he did know one thing.

Jesus wasn't dead.

He was back.

 **J** ohn was hesitant. On the Friday before, he'd been the first to leave the tomb, and now he was the first to arrive. That day, he'd left the tomb full of anger and despair. Now he felt doubtful and scared. Peter had already rushed in there. He didn't hear a scream, but nor did he hear a call of excitement.

He took a deep breath, and, slowly, walked into the tomb.

 _"_ _No, I'm the greatest of us all, for I was called by Jesus first."_

 _"_ _But I am the one whom Jesus loves the most. I even heard him say so."_

 _"_ _You did, eh? When?"_

 _"_ _Sometime…"_

Sometime. Sometime long ago. Sometime that never happened. A time that John lied about to Peter only to make himself feel better about himself. The one loved the most by Jesus? Ha. The one who doubted Jesus. The one who doubted his very best friend—his Lord and Savior. The one who didn't even consider the possibility of Jesus never really dying. He'd seen him die. And he'd believed what he'd seen.

" _Oh you of little faith, why do you doubt?"_

Directed to Peter, but John felt that sentence nagging in his mind now as he stared at the folded up cloths. There was no body, and he had no question whatsoever where it was. Not stolen by the Romans—that was for sure.

But where was he? Heaven? Walking around this Earth, somewhere? Behind John?

He swerved around at the sound of footsteps, but sighed when it was only Mary of Magdala.

"Told you," she said.

Peter couldn't hide the grin on his face.

"Well, what do we do now?" for John surely liked to know.

"We tell the others," Peter said.

"Tell them what?"

"What's happened."

"What's exactly happened here, Peter?"

Peter furrowed his brow at John in disbelief. John glared at him. Peter had no idea just like he did. He was just trying to act like he knew everything. That he was the best one of them all.

Instead of answering, Peter ran out of the tomb, carrying the burial cloths, and took off running back towards town. John sighed angrily and ran after him.


	3. Find Him!

Find him!

Josias, still shaken, stood in front of the high priest and tried to calm himself down. His breathing had subsided some, but he still struggled to speak when Caiphas demanded to know why he wasn't guarding the tomb.

"It's the third day! Those….those…followers of the blasphemer could be stealing his body! Go back there at once."

"We can't," Marius said glancing towards Josiah, a silent plea for him to say something. But what was he supposed to see? He honestly had no idea what had even happened. He remember…an earthquake. And men in white clothing. Then suddenly, he awoke laying on the ground. Had he been dreaming? He would have thought so, until he saw the stone rolled away from the entrance and cracked in to large pieces. A quick inspection of the burial place would confirm the body of that Jew was gone.

"You can't? What do you mean you can't?"

Josias cut in. "Because—because there's nothing to guard."  
Caiphas' eyes grew large and he stumbled backwards, shocked at the words uttered out of Josias' mouth. Josias hadn't even offered an explanation yet, but it seem as if the high priest already knew what he was speaking of. Nonetheless, Josias said, "The criminal. His body's gone. There was an earthquake, and men in white clothing…"

"Nonsense!" Caiphas shouted, banging his hand on the desk next to him.

 **N** othing to guard. Nothing to guard. _Nothing to guard!_ What did that even mean? Caiphas knew. Deep down, he knew, and he despised the thoughts he was having. Those...followers of that blasphemer. They did this. Maybe the guards were even part of this Jesus group. Maybe they were lying.

Caiphas glanced over at the two soldiers as they walked hurriedly along to the supposedly empty tomb. Both of them appeared fidgety and scared. Were they hiding something? Caiphas would prefer they did, so he could question them there and now and have answers.

 _Father God, I pray that this blasphemer may be still in the tomb where he lay dead two days before. He is a sinner, who takes your name in vain, and doesn't deserve to be looked on and talked about by others. He deserves to be dead and buried. Please let him be._

"Here we are," the brown-headed soldier stated.

Caiphas didn't look up yet-just watched his footing. He grasped tightly onto a passing tree. His hands shook. Most likely because he was worried about tripping-not about the supposed King of Jews. He was dead. In the tomb. Buried. Dead. Done.

"See?" the Roman stated. "Nothing's here."

"Silence!" Caiphas shouted, too angry to listen to anyone talk. He just needed to observe the scene himself. And so he did.

They were right. At least about one part. The tomb rock lay on the ground, cracked in two large pieces. The posted notice tossed far away. He could still read the words, even from that distance, "Here lay Jesus, the said King of the Jews. By order of Pontius Pilate, this tomb shall not be disturbed."

But disturbed it was.

Slowly, step by step, Caiphas made his way into the tomb. He wasn't supposed to, though. He was the high priest, and this was Passover. He shouldn't be interacting with places of the dead.

But he had to. He felt his God was drawing him towards the tomb, to investigate and figure out the truth. Not the Jews' God. His.

Taking a deep breath, Caiphas entered the tomb, fully expecting the body of Jesus to be there. Fully expecting himself ready to pull his robe over his face and mask the smell and sight of blood and decaying flesh. Fully expecting himself to turn his head away in disgust at the Jew, to tell the others, "I told you so" and go celebrate Passover.

But there was no body. Only folded garments.

The blasphemer had been stolen.

He grit his teeth in anger. He remember that Friday night better than any day of his life. He'd watched Nazorean writhe and moan in pain. He'd even recollected the prediction Jesus had said a while ago, that he will destroy the temple, yet in three days raise it up. Ha. Raise up the temple, when he could not even come down from his cross.

But that image of a temple crashing brought-forth a new picture of destruction. Fire. Shaking. The temple curtain tearing. Caiphas had been in the temple that night. Praying as any good Jew would do. His praying had been interrupted, then, by intense shaking. He remembered grabbing on to a pillar tightly, begging God to save himself and the temple. His prayer had been answered with sacred incense being spilled over onto the ground, lanterns tipping and erupting in flames, and the curtain tearing completely in half. After that, the temple floor had cracked in two, separating him from the other high priests.

Then, silence. Caiphas didn't remember much then. He remembered reflecting back to that blasphemer's words. But he had not caused this. God had. And every day, Caiphas begged his God to forgive the sins of others who angered him so. He begged God to not be so angry with others, and then thanked him for allowing Caiphas to not be one of those horrid sinners.

Surely prayer like that would have God not be so angry.

"So where is he?" one soldier asked, interrupting Caiphas' thoughts.

Only one word came into his mind: "Stolen."

Both Romans looked at each other, then said, together, "Stolen?"

"By his followers. That is what you must tell them." Caiphas marched over to the brown-haired soldier and looked him directly into the face, making sure he understood what Caiphas was saying to him. "You must tell them—everyone, those who ask and those who don't—that this King of the Jews has been stolen by his followers in order to fulfill what he said once before. If you tell anyone about the so called figures you saw here, I will report you for lying, as well as other crimes, and I will make sure you are punished. If, however, you manage to keep your sightings a secret, and tell everyone—and I mean, everyone, your fellow Roman soldiers included—you both will be paid handsomely. Is that understood? Tell everyone he has been stolen— _nothing_ else. Then, find the body. This criminal _is_ somewhere. Leave no stone unturned. They—his followers, got that? His followers—are hiding him somewhere, and you will not rest until he is found."

"Yes, high priest," the soldiers answered, but remained still. They were clearly bewildered.

"Now! _Tamshikh!_ Find him!"

They hurried off.


	4. The Search Begins

**Wassup, guys? Hope you're liking my story so far. Just a heads up, I changed a bit of the last chapter, "Find Him!" right at the end where Caiphas talks to the two roman soldiers, so I suggest you go back and read that part otherwise this part won't make sense. I didn't change much, just adding in a note here and there so the story is better (I hope). So please enjoy this chapter and review! God bless! Suggestions appreciated!**

The Search Begins

 **P** hilip cautiously walked through Jerusalem, his cloak grasped in his hand, covering half of his face. He dare not walk through Jerusalem without at least half of his face hidden. The Romans prowled about, eyeing each and every person. Whenever they glanced his way, he quickly turned his head and pretended to be pre-occupied with a merchant.

When Jesus was alive, Philip didn't care what others thought about him. He would have shouted out mercy and goodness to everyone, just to see the smile on Jesus' face as he spread the Good News. He loved how proud Jesus was of him. He felt like a genuine Apostle of Jesus then, because Jesus made him _feel_ that way.

But now, Jesus wasn't here to make him have such emotions, and he had no intention of showing his face to everyone and getting arrested by the Romans. He wasn't even there when Jesus had died, so scared was he. But Peter and John had filled them in on all that had happened. Jesus had suffered. And he had died.

But risen. Philip scoffed. _Ha!_ He wasn't one to doubt—he really wasn't. He believed Jesus could do anything and everything. Feed the five thousand? Sure. Walk on water? Why not. Cure the sick? Easy. But all those things Jesus had done when he was alive. Philip knew he'd come to this world to change the hearts of many, and he'd fulfilled his mission. Philip didn't know why he had to die at such a young age, though, since surely he could have converted many more people. Maybe that wasn't God's intention. Maybe God the Father hadn't intended his Son to die. Maybe all of that had just been an accident—a mishap.

Nevertheless, Jesus was dead, and it was quite ridiculous for anyone to even think he was alive again. It wasn't like Philip could rise from the dead whenever he wanted to. Jesus couldn't either. Sure, he could raise _others_ from the dead—Lazarus, the little girl—but raise himself? How could he? He was the one dead! God or not.

Philip picked his way through the crowd, taking care to keep his face covered. It was his turn to purchase food. He just needed to grab some bread and then hurry back into hiding.

A commotion erupted a ways up before him.

"Get out of my way!"

"Move it!"

Philip was slammed up against a house as the crowd continued to press against him. He winced at the pain, and wiggled into a more comfortable position as he stood on his toes, trying to see over the heads of many.

A Roman soldier on a brown horse came charging through the streets, nearly trampling a young child. The mother screamed and reached for her daughter as the horse came running through, barely missing the little girl's hand. The soldier atop the animal did not care. Instead, he pulled his horse to a stop and eyed the fifty, including Philip. Philip pulled his cloak farther over his face.

"Attention people of Jerusalem!"

The crowd hushed.

"It appears that earlier this morning, the crucified body of Jesus the Nazorean was stolen. Anyone who has news must report to me. If you have taken that criminal's body, I suggest turning yourself in or else your punishment will be far more severe the longer you keep quiet. We _will_ be searching your homes."

"But, Sir!" someone called out. "It's holy Passover!"

The soldier smirked. "Then anyone guilty of hiding this criminal's body will surely be cast into the fires of hell."

"But, Sir…you can't search our houses."

"I can, and I will. Starting with yours." The soldier pulled the sword out of his scabbard and pointed it at the man, then motioned for him to walk. Frightened, the man listened and hurried off, the rider and horse following.

This action set off a wave of fear through the rest of the crowd. Mothers grabbed their children close to them, men grumbled in anger. Philip could only think of one thing: They were going to search all houses. They were going to search where he and his friends were hiding.

And they were going to be arrested.

 **P** eter rushed into the room where he knew the other Apostles were hiding, not even taking care to see if John and Mary of Magdala were close behind him. He darted around the corner and nearly ran into Bartholomew.

" _Mah karah_?" he asked, fear etched on his face.

"Nothing!" Peter exclaimed. He glanced at everyone in the room. Andrew, Bartholomew, both James's, Thaddeus, Matthew, Simon, and Thomas. John and Mary of Magdala came rushing in. They all stared at him in confusion.

Peter took a deep breath and said, "He's alive."

A commotion erupted behind him. Philip hurried past Peter, stared at each individual person, and announced quickly, "He's dead."

Peter turned in shock towards Philip. "What? Where did you hear that? I just came from the tomb. He's alive."

Philip shook his head in disgust. "A Roman soldier _just_ announced it. They are looking for the body. Apparently he was stolen in the middle of the night. They are searching houses."

" _Lo!_ You honestly believe the Romans? I'm telling you—" Peter turned towards everybody, silently pleading for them to believe him—"he is alive. The garments he was wrapped in? Folded up to the side. Do you expect a robber to unwrap his body and then take the time to fold the rags?"

Philip turned towards Peter, anger on his face. "I'm _telling_ you, we need to leave somewhere. Now. The Romans will be here any minute."

"Where do you expect us to go, Philip?" Thomas asked.

Peter couldn't believe this. He turned to Mary and John in awe, and they, too were bewildered by the lack of faith from their friends. He had just witnessed himself that Jesus had indeed risen from the dead, and they were believing _Philip?_ Philip was the one who always doubted what Jesus said! Well, him and Judas. And Thomas, sometimes. Why weren't they listening to Peter? Jesus' Rock?

 _"I swear to you all, I don't know the man! I've never seen him before in my life!"_

That horrible sentence entered Peter's mind. No wonder they didn't trust him. Peter had betrayed his Lord, and they all knew it. They most likely just believed he was crazy. Crazy like they thought Mary was.

Well he wasn't.

"Fine. You don't believe me? Go to the tomb. Go see yourself that he's gone."

Philip scoffed. "I already know that he's gone. I just said that he was stolen. The Romans are searching everywhere for him. We need to go find another place to hide, and I mean quickly. Now—"

"You do what you want. Jesus _has_ risen. Just like he said he would. And I'm going to go find him."

Now John spoke up. "Find him? I don't think you can just go and find Jesus, Peter. And like Philip said, the Romans—"

"Are searching our houses, yes, I heard. But since you don't believe me—"

Mary of Magdala interrupted his speech. "Peter, please. Don't go out there. Jesus knows where we are. Stay here."

"I told you, we need to _leave_ here!" Philip shouted.

"Be quiet, Philip!" Peter was seriously on the end of his rope. He wanted to charge out of the Upper Room and go looking for Jesus, for he was somewhere here. Peter knew that, and he wasn't about to go hiding away again like he had that Friday night.

Mary continued to plead with him, though, and as he looked into her teary eyes, he couldn't help but say, "Fine."

Everyone then sat down and quickly spoke about how they would hide from the Romans.

While Peter thought of the perfect time to escape.

 **T** haddeus, military tribune, overlooked the other soldiers, those far lower ranked than him. They watched him in awe, waiting for his command. He grinned as he looked each one in the eye. Some cowered in fear, while others raised their chin in hopes that he would pick them for the job.

The job. What was the job again? Thaddeus frowned. Ah, yes. Finding the Nazorean. The claimed King of the Jews who had been murdered two days prior, and apparently stolen. Or was it risen? Thaddeus didn't know, and honestly, he didn't really care. Sure, Pilate himself had given him the orders— _"Make sure you find him!"—_ but Thaddeus still did not care much for the task.

He said, then announced, atop his horse, "Pilate has ordered that the body of Jesus the Nazorean to be found as soon as possible." He pointed at a few soldiers. "You three. Go search the area around the tomb; Four of you start digging up fresh graves. All of them. The rest of you go search the dead bodies who have not been buried. And do it quickly. In a few days this criminal won't even be recognizable."

The soldiers hurried off in a heartbeat, though Thaddeus knew they were dreading the task of looking at bloated, rotting corpses.

He was getting sick just thinking about them. Luckily he didn't have to go there quite yet. Now, he had another chore to do.

 **H** ow does someone just steal a body? Caiphas had begged and pleaded for Pilate to send guards to that damn tomb, and really, what was the point? Risen. Risen. Risen! And it had to be the Jew, didn't it? The one he did not want to crucify. The one he did not want to scourge. He just hadn't wanted anything to do with this so called King of the Jews! And now he was entirely involved, and Pilate hated it. Maybe he would be found in a few days. Maybe in a few hours. Then his body could be burned—in front of Caiphas, of course—and this would all be over. Pilate wanted it to be over.

"It's him, isn't it?"

Pilate wheeled around, only to see his wife, Claudia, standing there, her eyes full of tears.

"The stolen body. It's the Nazorean. The one I dreamt about."

Pilate should have been mad for his wife dreaming about other men—and men who had been crucified and stolen at that—but he wasn't. He was just irritated she still thought of him, even now. _Especially_ now.

He said nothing, but Claudia knew. She hurried over to him. "I told you. I told you this would happen. You shouldn't have crucified him. I told you you'd regret this!"

Pilate grit his teeth in anger. "You told me nothing, Claudia. All you told me was that you dreamt of a man. You, dreaming of a man! One other than me! I could have _you_ punished, simply because you mentioned that."

Claudia was not scared, and Pilate knew she wouldn't be, because he could never do that to her.

"You know he has not been stolen. You know that."

"I know nothing of the sort."

"It was in my dream. That man was holy!"

"Was, Claudia! Was! He's dead now! And after his body has been discovered, he'll be forgotten by you and everyone else in a week's time."

Claudia shook her head and slowly began backing out of the room. Pilate wished to follow her, but before he could, a knock came at his door. Angered,—especially since the last knock like this was when that Jesus had first been mentioned to him—he hurried to the door and swung it open.

Thaddeus stood there, helmet in hands.

"Have you found him?" Pilate asked, fully expecting Thaddeus to say yes.

"No, sir, but the guards standing watch that night are about to be questioned. I came here to see if you wished to be present at that time."

"Why on earth would I want to be present? I gave you one job, Thaddeus, and that was to find this Nazorean as quickly as possible. I see you have already failed in that aspect. Now stop wasting time and go!"

Pilate slammed the door in his face.

 **B** iting his tongue to prevent himself from cursing, Thaddeus turned and hurried off to where these two guards, Josias and Marius, were being kept. He tried not think about Pilate, for if he did, he would surely begin throwing things in anger. _He_ should be looking for his precious body, not _Thaddeus!_ And to just disrespect him like that? A military tribune? Thaddeus sighed loudly in anger.

" _Mah karah,_ sir?" a younger guard asked politely.

Thaddeus glared and summoned for him to open up the cell door.

Josias and Marius—Thaddeus didn't know who was who, and he really didn't care—both sat in the corner of the small room. The brown-haired one bit his nails and whispered words, while the other one just sat there, staring.

"Why exactly are you two in here?" Thaddeus asked, not really caring, but he figured that was an easier first question to answer the frightened boys than, "Where's the body?"

They didn't answer, just sat there. They didn't even look at him.

"Hey!" he shouted, now angry. He didn't have time for this, as Pilate so clearly already told him. "You!" he pointed his sword at the brown-headed boy. "Name."

"J-J-Josias." He scrambled to his feet, and the other did the same, now fully conscious to the fact that Thaddeus stood before them. Maybe it was the sword.

"Why exactly are you guys in here?"

Josias hurried to explain, fear very evident in his voice. "We told the high priest about the…uh…incident and showed them the tomb, then we, uh…ran back here and told some other Romans, the ones like you, and they got angry and put us in here for questioning. I swear we didn't do anything."

"Anything? What do I have to be worried about?"

Marius glared at Josias, and that caught Thaddeus' attention. "You. Speak. Now. Tell me about this morning."

"Uh, well really is was last night, or maybe it was early this morning, but we were guarding the tomb—"

"Guarding it good, too!"

"Quiet!" Thaddeus shouted. He motioned for Marius to continue.

"We were guarding the tomb and then uh, there was a light—"

Josias instantly cut in, even though Thaddeus had just told him to remain silent. "No, Marius. There wasn't, remember?"

Marius' eyes grew large, and he stammered to change what he had already said. "I mean, there wasn't a light. There were people. Four or five of them. They had, uh, swords! And spears!"

"Big ones…" Josias nodded in agreement.

"We tried to stop them, but they just knocked us down and tied us up. We then watched as they rolled back the stone, went inside, and stole the body. We are lucky to have made it back alive."

Thaddeus smiled. "And how exactly did they roll back this stone?" Thaddeus had seen the tomb. He saw the stone. No way would only four people be able to roll that back.

Marius seemed confused. "They all rolled it back. I watched."

"And how exactly did the stone crack in two?"

"Crack in two..?"

Josias cut in. "As they shoved it back, it toppled over on the ground and cracked. Just like that. It was quite extraordinary."

Thaddeus nodded. "And about this light…"

"No, no, no, no light." Marius shook his head quickly. "There was no light. After they stole the body we untangled ourselves from the ropes and ran to tell the high priest. We showed him to the tomb, and he told us—"

"Told you what?"

Alarmed, Marius quickly said, "Uh, just to go tell you and the other soldiers that the body was sto—missing!"

"Missing. I see. Is that all you have to tell me?"

They both nodded eagerly.

Thaddeus nodded slowly, a smirk growing across his face as he moved to the door. He turned right before he walked out and said, "Oh, and since both of you find it acceptable to lie to me, I hope you find your living quarters acceptable, for this is where you still be staying for some time, at least until you can tell me the truth, or until the Nazorean's body has been found."

As the soldier walked away, he heard one of the others say, "You won't find him."

Thaddeus did not break stride.


	5. Searching the Corpses

**Short chapter! Trying to think on how I could break these chapters up better. Like for my "By His Wounds" story it was easy...Betrayal, Crowning of Thorns...this is just harder! Ideas?**

Searching the Corpses

 **"** **T** his is the worst chore a tribune has ever given me!" Orion gagged in disgust as he turned over another body. He saw the bloating, purple, disfigured face of the one criminal, and almost vomited. He held the cloth over his face, but the smell burned his eyes.

"It's not even a chore. It's a punishment," Harrak declared. Orion watched as his friend's spear, in attempt to turn over a corpse, poked through the skin, a putrid smell and blood instantly exiting the body.

"Well what did we do to deserve this punishment?" And why did they have to throw the unwanted crucified bodies here over this hill? Why couldn't someone bury them? They only lay half devoured by birds and flies now.

Harrak shrugged. "You were caught drunk on the job one time."

Orion's eyes grew wide. "That was _one_ time, and you're the one who found me! Unless you told someone…"

Harrak laughed. "I didn't tell anyone. I have no idea why we're here. Who are we supposed to be looking for again?"

"Jesus the Nazorean. He was crucified two days ago—I was there. Not really watching, just…admiring from afar what that man said."

"Why? What did he say?"

Orion turned over another body that was atop the pile. He glanced at the side. No piercing. "I don't know. He just kept yelling out 'Father, forgive them' and 'They have no idea what they are doing'. Things like that. It was…strange."

Orion looked up to see Harrak leaning on is spear and staring at him. "You going Jew on me?"

Alarmed, Orion said, "What? No! J-just keep working. Here, what about his body?"

Orion saw Harrak smirk, but he didn't 'care. He could think what he thought. He wasn't going Jew. Or any other religion for that matter. He didn't follow anyone god and had no intention to later on in the future. He was just curious. That was it. Curious as to why a man—a nobody—would say such weird words as he hung from a cross, in excruciating pain. Who was the "Father"? Why beg him to forgive everyone else? And what was this paradise?

 _"Amen...I say to you, this same day you...will be with me...in paradise."_

The criminal hardly could breathe at all, so why waste his breath on saying that to the fellow also hanging by nails? Where was this paradise at, anyway? Orion would like to know. He would rather be at that paradise than digging through corpses, looking for the one man who apparently knew.

"Find anything?"

Orion wheeled around, startled to see Tribune standing there, all high and mighty. He didn't even hold a cloth over his mouth. Could he seriously bear the smell? Orion couldn't, and he feared he'd vomit right before Tribune.

"Uh, yes, sir. Here." Orion hurried over to the opposite side of the corpses. He almost fell into the pile when he abruptly halted, and his face flushed in embarrassment as Tribune glared at him. "These two. See the holes in the hands and feet?"

"They all have holes in their hands and feet, idiot!"

Orion started. "I know. I was just pointing it out. This one has a beard like the Nazorean did. Or…at least, I think it's a beard. Kind of hard to tell."

Tribune marched over and crouched down so he was almost eye level with the corpse. Didn't he see the ghostly eyes staring back at him? Didn't the putrid smell both him?

"No, see? This one's legs are broken. The Nazorean had no broken legs."

Harrak, spear in hand, pointed at the other body. "This other one has a spear in the side."

Tribune barely even glanced at it. "No. That one is far older than two days. Don't you notice how it has rotted?"  
Harrak made a face. "I try not to, Tribune."

Orion glared at his friend, instantly worried Tribune would give them a far worse chore, if there was such a thing.

The older soldier sighed, fatigue and anger very evident facial expressions. "All right. Are there any other places where there are bodies unburied?"

"No, sir."

"Fine. Then go to the graveyard and help the others."

"Yes, Tribune."


	6. Mary's Pain

Mary's Pain

 _She heard the distant hammering coming from outside and smiled. The sound reminded her of her husband, Joseph, recently deceased. She closed her eyes and pictured her spouse standing before her, brown eyes sparkling. Oh, how she missed him. He'd been with her through everything. She couldn't have asked her father to pick a better man._

 _But it did not start out that way. Mary remembered telling Joseph she was pregnant. They were not yet wed, and Joseph had believed she'd done the unthinkable._

 _"_ _You could be stoned in the streets!" her mother sobbed._

 _"_ _Mary, what were you thinking?" Her father could barely even look at her._

 _Joseph just sat off to the side, his hand covering the expressions on his face._

 _"_ _Father. Please. I'm telling you the truth. I have done no wrong."_

 _And she hadn't, but no one believed her. She hardly even believed herself. Her? Having the Son of God? Why? She was nothing. A nobody. There was nothing special about her, yet God had chosen her to be the mother of his Son._

 _She'd laid countless nights awake in her bed on the floor, pondering, praying, and worrying over Joseph's decision. What would he do? Would she be stoned in the streets? Mary was afraid to walk outside her house because she knew the others whispered of her. Her once close friends now shunned her. She was no longer welcome to go to their homes. If they happened to walk to the well at the same time, the others would glare at her, walk away, and wait until she left before they filled their jars._

 _The waiting had been horrible, and Mary honestly had no idea what Joseph would do. One day he'd walked up to her—no expression on her face. She bowed her head, expecting him to say something like, "What you did is wrong. I will divorce you. You are on your own." But instead he said, so proudly, so surely, "You will give birth to the Son of God, and he will be named Jesus. He shall be called Wonderful Counselor. The Mighty God. Prince of Peace."_

 _Mary could not mask the shock the felt. "How did you…?"_

 _"_ _God told me this in a dream. He told me that I should not be afraid to take you as my wife. That you are pure."_

 _He glanced down at her slightly swollen stomach. "Your child will need a father. I will try my hardest to fill that role."_

 _"_ _People will look at both of us differently. Think things…"_

 _Joseph shook his head. "I am your husband, and you are my wife. Nothing else matters."_

 _From that moment on, Joseph had been the perfect husband. She loved him dearly, as did Jesus. Mary loved watching Joseph teach Jesus the carpentry business, and Jesus ogled on everything he did._

 _And now, the sound of hammer striking nail soothed her. She set down the bread dough and pushed herself to her feet. Opening the door, she peeked outside and smiled when she saw Jesus carefully examining the table being constructed. He blew the dust out of the crevice and sat eye to eye with one of the legs, staring it down and thinking things Mary didn't know._

 _"_ Yeshua _," she called._

 _He glanced up and smiled at her, his brown eyes twinkling just like her dear husband's. He pushed his wavy hair out of his face as he slowly came to a stand._

 _"_ _You have been working hard all morning. Don't you think it is time for a rest?"_

 _He laughed, and that laughed warmed her heart, especially since lately there had been so much sadness. "Not much longer. I need to finish this table."_

 _"_ _For whom?"_

 _"_ _A rich man."_

 _Mary smiled. "Well finish up. And wash your hands before you come in my house."_

 _Her Son nodded in return, a grin tugging his lips. "Ken, Ima."_

 _She slowly returned to the house and sat back down, kneading the bread dough once again. She heard the hammer hitting nail, and she closed her eyes and savored the sound._

Mary jolted up when she heard a _clank!_ She looked around, checking her surroundings and searching for her Son. Had she fallen asleep baking? For how long? She hurried to her feet and rushed to the door, throwing it open and fully expecting to see her Son bending over his carpentry. She expected to see his eyes turn to look at her. He expected to see a smile on his face.

But she saw nothing. She didn't see her Son or his wood work. She only saw an empty carpentry shop.

It took her a moment to realize the reality of her life at that moment, but when she did, it almost knocked her to her feet. The memories came flashing back to her so quickly now, and she wanted to block them out.

Blood. Pain. Sorrow. Oh, the sorrow. The sadness. The whipping weapons, flying high in the air, then quickly being brought back down on the exposed back of her Baby Boy. She heard the evil laugh of the Romans as they continued to abuse his sacred body, and she saw Caiphas grin at her right before he called out, "Scourge him! He wants more!" The welts on his back, the glass shards tearing into his skin and ripping it to pieces.

Then she saw the crucifixion scene, him being nailed on the cross, his fingers curling in pain. She saw the nails being slowly hammered into his palms, the blood gushing forth. She heard his cries of pain. Watched as his deathbed and him with it was raised higher and higher up, so he was completely vertical.

She couldn't wipe out the pain of seeing him in pain those three torturous hours. The mocking by the Pharisees. The soldiers playing games for his garments. As he hung there, barely moving, barely breathing, barely alive.

The biting wind nipped at her skin and flung her hair about her face as her Son desperately tried to tell her everything was going to be all right, and that John would care for her now. She tried not to fear, but she did. She feared for him.

Then he died. Right there before her, her Baby Boy died. Gave up his spirit and ascended to the Father in Heaven. But Mary didn't see that. She only saw his butchered corpse hanging from a cross, the blood continued to dribble down and drop even though his heart no longer beat.

The memories of her cradling his body came flashing back. She lay there, his head held in her arms as she tried not to sob over her Lord and Son. The child she had raised for thirty-three years. The child her and her husband Joseph had raised together. The child that now lay dead before her, the indication of all his torture far more evident close up.

Finally, the tomb closed, and he was left in there alone, dead.

Mary knew he was rejoicing in Heaven, for now he had no pain at all, but she still missed him dearly. Had it really only been two days? How could she go on living without him now? No husband, no Son. How could she go on living, knowing all he had endured? The images of blood and pain and sorrow just wouldn't stop flashing through her brain, and she begged them to stop.

All through Friday, she had kept her emotions hidden well. A few tears here and there, trying to be brave for her Son.

But now he wasn't here, and Mary knew he wouldn't be coming back. He wouldn't be sitting across from her at suppers anymore. She would not be able to speak to him anymore. She wouldn't ever hear the sound of him hammering nails and working on his wood projects.

Hammering nails. No, Mary was glad she would no longer be able to hear that sound, for it brought her far too much pain, but the sounds wouldn't stop.

 _Clank!_

She fell to the floor as the nail was hammered into her Son's precious hand.

 _Clank!_

Tears pooled in her eyes.

 _Clank!_

She could almost hear her Son crying in pain.

 _Clank!_

Mary broke down sobbing. The tears slid down her cheeks as she lay curled up on the floor, weeping over her dear Son who had to suffer so much. For her Baby Boy that had to go through such pain for the world and everyone else. For the child who she could never again say, " _Ani ohevet otcha._ " Never again.

A knock came at the door. Mary slowly came up from her weeping position and stood. But before she could answer it, Mary of Magdala burst in, out of breath and excited.

"Mother!" she cried, grasping Mary by the shoulders. Concern instantly appeared on her face when she saw the tears. "Are you well?"

"I'm fine," Mary the Mother whispered, though she clearly wasn't.

"You must come with us and the disciples. We are in the Upper Room. The Romans are beginning to search houses."

"What for?"

Mary of Magdala looked at her. "Because they say he's been stolen."

Mary didn't even need to ask who "he" was. She grasped her friend's arm and stared into her face, pleading for more information. "And what do you say?"

She didn't hesitate. "He's risen."


	7. Peter's Encounter

Peter's Encounter

All right, he'd stayed there long enough. It was time to leave. He just needed to get up and tell them…

"Peter."

He glanced up and John. "What?"

"You haven't responded in some time."

"I'm thinking."

John stared at him, suspicion etched on his face.

Peter figured he better head out before they knew his real plan. They would already protest him leaving.

He stood. "I'm going to go look for places where we can hide."

Philip stood, baffled. "Did you not just hear this entire conversation we'd had?"

Peter honestly hadn't, but they didn't need to know that. "Doesn't matter. I'm going to go walk around then. Scout out places, see what the Romans are doing."

"You're just going to go and see what they're doing? Ask them their hobbies…chores maybe? Why don't you join them, then?"

"Philip!" John shouted.

"I'm going," Peter insisted. "I'll be back in a bit."

Philip marched over to Peter and grabbed his arm tightly, preventing Peter from going anywhere. "You're _not_ going. And if you do, you can plan on not coming back."

At the moment when Peter wondered why he _should_ come back, the door flung open, and everybody gasped as Mary of Magdala and Mary the Mother were hurried inside.

"Mother!' John called out, agape. "What are you doing here? _Mah karah?_ "

As the Blessed Mother began explaining that she was well, Peter noticed Philip's grip no longer on his arm, and he seized the opportunity and rushed out the door before anyone noticed.

Outside, he quickly covered his head with a scarf, so at least no one should recognize him directly if they walked by. He shouldn't be gone long, though. Just long enough to search the appropriate places for his Lord and figure out exactly what the Romans were doing.

With those thoughts in mind, Peter rushed down the stairs and into the streets, trying to hurry but not enough so that someone drew suspicion of him. But it didn't really matter, since every other person was running through the streets, most likely trying to hide from the Romans that occasionally prowled about and bust open doors.

Peter made himself to the side of the road, not wishing to be caught in the middle of the crowd. He fingered each house as he passed it by, hiding his face.

But wait…why exactly was he hiding his face? He didn't need to. And didn't want to. He wouldn't, not after what he'd done…that Friday night. No, he didn't even want to think about it. But he was, and the more he tried not to think about it, the more he did. Isn't that how it was?

Oh, how he'd felt awful. He couldn't even quite comprehend the pain and hurt he'd felt those two days ago, because it was just so bad for someone to think about without directly experiencing it again, but he no way wanted to experience such feelings again. Why had he—dare he say it?—betray Jesus? His Lord? Out of fear? Most likely. Why? What was to fear?

 _"_ _Oh, you of little faith. Why do you doubt?"_

His thoughts always came back to those two sentences. _"Why do you doubt?"_ Why did he? Why did he doubt while walking on water as well? Why did he fear? Jesus had been there, both times present, but he had still be afraid. And hadn't Jesus made him his Rock? If Jesus knew Peter would do such an awful thing, why did he give him such an important role?

He felt forgiven. A bit, maybe. He'd heard the wind rustle such a statement, but then again, it could have simply been the wind. But he clearly remembered there was no wind…

"Hey!"

Peter barely missed running into a passing man.

"Sorry," he muttered. He needed to focus.

Taking care to watch where he was going, Peter turned left, then right, and found himself standing in the middle of the road where Jesus had carried his cross. At least, he believed it was this road. John hadn't exactly given him the details. Peter followed the road until he came in to view with Golgotha, where he knew indeed Jesus had been crucified. The crosses still hung there. As he walked closer, he could see the dried blood spattered on the middle cross, even from still so far away.

He found it difficult to stare. Why hadn't they taken the crosses down? It was strange, especially since it was Passover. Usually they took them down that Friday evening.

Knowing what he had to do, Peter made his way to Golgotha and slowly began climbing up the rocky hill. The rocks cut into his fingers every time he reached down to stable his equilibrium. He found himself stepping on his garment and tripping often. How had Jesus done this, bloodied, bruised, and butchered? And carry a cross? Peter was exhausted just making the trek up there, he couldn't imagine if he had extra weight added to his shoulders, as well as being scourged. And had Jesus been barefoot? Did the cross bang against his head, crowned in thorns? Could he even see?

All those questions Peter couldn't answer, because he hadn't been there. In a way, he was almost glad he hadn't been present to see his Lord so beaten. But how could he say that? When Jesus had indeed trusted him to be his Rock? A Rock that hid away and sobbed.

Peter wasn't going to do that now, though. No.

Reaching the top of the hill, Peter stopped to regain his breath, only to almost step in a giant crevice as he did. He jumped backwards, staring in awe at the hill split in two, right in between the cross of Jesus and the criminal who had hung on his right. Peter knew the cross in the middle had been Jesus', for the other two were not nearly covered in so much blood. His Lord's still remained, though that Friday night he believed it had rain a bit. But the blood remained there, still vermillion, splattered, and dried in a dripping pattern at the bottom of the cross. The rocks were even red. How much blood had there been…?

Peter slowly walked towards the cross and tipped his head up to it. What had it been like to see his Lord hang there? Had he cried out, or remained silent? Had he prayed? Had the other soldiers mocked him? Did the blood run into his eyes often, but he couldn't wipe it away due to the fact that his hands were nailed to the wood? Did he struggle to breathe?

Saddened that Peter had not been there when his Lord needed him the most, Peter made his way closer to the foot of the cross. He reached his fingers out to the touch the wood, the feeling coarse and cold under his fingers. He touched the blood. His Lord's blood. The blood Jesus had been forced to shed by himself.

 _"_ _I am prepared to die with you, my Lord."_

But he obviously had not been prepared. He'd been scared. And he had denied Jesus not once, not twice, but three times.

Peter fell to his knees, the rocks barely causing him pain now. He hung his head and kept his one arm outstretched, three of his fingers just barely touching the cross that dripped in dry blood.

" _Salach li,"_ he muttered. How many times had he said that in the past two or three days? Too many to count. "Forgive me," Peter said again. "Me. A sinner—"

"Hey, you!"

Startled, Peter turned around sharply on his knees, the rocks now digging into his skin.

"What are you doing here?" a Roman soldier asked, sword in hand. "Tribune has ordered all houses to be searched and all civilians to return to their homes."

Peter said nothing.

But then, the Roman seemed to understand something, for his mouth twitched in an evil grin. "This was the Nazorean's cross. I remember. I'd been present."

Peter raised his head slightly, not backing down, but most certainly not saying anything. He didn't intend to deny Jesus again, but he wouldn't say anything if he didn't have to.

"I don't recollect you being here," the soldier questioned with a sly smile. "Well then how about I remind you of that day?" The soldier sauntered over, confidence building as he retold something he had most likely enjoyed witnessing. He paused for a moment, then asked quietly, "Do you know how painful it is to have nails driven into the hands? The criminal had nearly bitten his tongue off in pain. The blood just spattered everywhere." The man, sword still in one hand, gestured greatly to show how the blood most assuredly had gone in all places. "Oh, and then the other hand! I'd had to tie a rope around his wrist because I've heard that when you're in such great pain you kinda close up. So anyways, I tied this rope around his wrist and pu-u-u-u-ulled! Ha! You should have heard that shoulder crack. The Nazorean didn't scream, though. He just grit his teeth."

Peter remained silent, picturing all this, but sincerely trying not to.

The Roman continued. "Then came his feet. Do you know what it feels like to have long, thick nails hammered into your feet?"

Without warning, the Roman kicked Peter in the side, sending him groaning and tumbling over to the side. His sandaled feet now exposed, the soldier stepped on Peter's leg to prevent him from moving it and angled his sword downward. Peter watched as the soldier pressed the point of the weapon directly into Peter's foot, right at the top. Immediately blood began flowing onto the rocks and his sandals. Peter hissed in pain, wondering when the soldier would stop this infliction of hurt.

Just when he was about to call out for him to stop, the soldier did. "More than that," he growled. " _Much_ more than that."

Marching over to the cross, the man glanced up at it and laughed. "And then he hung here! Just hung here, calling out, crying, 'Abba! Abba Father! Save me, Father! Forgive these people!' Ha!"

Peter lay there, not looking at the cross or the soldier who continued to mock his Lord.

"And you want to know what else happened? He suffered. Every. Single. Second. He had to pull his entire body up to breath. He had to step on his nailed feet. It was funny how much his fingers curled in pain, and his body sagged. The blood just kept dripping, though. Dripped in his eyes, down his arms, in his wounds. And he had many wounds. He got scourged good, you know. Glass shards, whips… Oh, and then that crown of thorns? Perfect for the King of the Worms."

Peter glanced up and watched as the soldier eyed him. Watched as he slowly walked over, a white-knuckle grip on his sword.

"And you know what else? If I could go back and do what I did to him over again, I would. Over and over and over again. And I have no problem inflicting the appropriate punishment to his followers as well."

Almost as if a decision had been made, the soldier raised his sword high above his head. Without even thinking, Peter turned away, eyes closed, and quickly whispered, "Save me, Lord."

Moments passed. How long? Peter didn't know. But surely long enough for the Roman to bring his sword down upon Peter. Almost fearful, Peter slowly turned his head to look at what was taking the other man so long to kill him. But the soldier no longer stood there. In fact, he wasn't anywhere in the vicinity. He had disappeared. And left in his place? A man in white clothing.

Peter scrambled to his feet and ran to his Lord, collapsing at his feet in one swift movement and calling out, "My Lord!"

Jesus smiled. He did. He _smiled._ At _Peter._ The disciple had never seen something so wonderful. Words came running into his mind, and Peter stood in order to be face-to-face and deliver them directly.

"My Lord…I'm sorry—"

Jesus held up his right hand to stop Peter. Peter couldn't help but notice the large hole in the palm.

"Peter. I need you to do something for me."

"Anything, Lord."

"Tell my brothers and my sisters that I will be returning to them. Tell them to be prepared."

"Yes, my God!"

Jesus smiled again, and Peter almost started crying. How much had he longed for Jesus' approval since he had betrayed him?

"And Peter? Be careful, my child. The Romans are out to destroy you along with my other followers."

He nodded, and with that, he watched as Jesus disappeared—just simply vanished into the air.

Awestruck, Peter stood there, his mouth agape. Only after a few moments did he remember the job Jesus had given him.

Determined to not let his Lord down once again, Peter turned and hurried off, the rocks cutting his hands and legs as he scrambled down Golgotha.


	8. The Unburied Dead

The Unburied Dead

 ** _I_** _AM. And I say to you now, you shall see the Son of Man sitting on the right hand of the power of God and coming in the clouds of Heaven."_

 _Shock. Distaste. Utter disgust. Anger. Oh, how Caiphas felt all those emotions at that moment. How dare this blasphemer speak to him like this? How dare he speak like this at all, and disgrace his god? He wanted him dead. He wanted nothing to do with this man. First he threatened to destroy the temple, and now he was calling himself the Son of God? Making himself equal to God? Unheard of. He deserved to die._

 _"_ _He is a blasphemer!" Caiphas shouted as he tore his garments with all his might. "We don't need any more witnesses! This man has sinned! The penalty is death!"_

 _Caiphas couldn't hide his pleasure when the crowd chanted in union, "Death! Death! Death!" Caiphas had put up with this Jesus long enough. The only way he would ever stop his ridiculous blaspheming was if he was put to death. A horrible, gruesome death, Caiphas hoped._

Breaking out of his thoughts, Caiphas slowly walked over to where the Tribune stood by the graves. Caiphas was in disgust as he made his way past the crowd. Nearly a quarter of all the bodies in the graveyard were dug up, the corpses lying there in their tomb, staring up at Caiphas as he walked past. He tried not to look, but he couldn't help it. The bodies were bloated, purple, rotting, and covered in filth. He eyed one body carefully. Was that…?

"These are all the bodies who have been most recently buried," Tribune stated.

Caiphas walked over to him, cane in hand. "This is a Jewish cemetery, Tribune. Who do you—"

"You told Pilate and me to do whatever it takes in order to find this Nazorean's body. That is what I am doing. If you don't appreciate how I handle situations like this, you can find a new person to do the job. But I guarantee that you won't find a better Tribune than me."

Caiphas glared at him. He grit his teeth. He should just condemn that Tribune to death. He did it once before, when he barely had any evidence, and he sure could do it again.

"Are you going to look at the bodies or not?"

"No. You are."

 **T** haddeus wanted to kill this man. He surely did. Did he even know who he was talking to? High priest or not, this man irritated Thaddeus to the core.

"Fine."

Walking over to the nearest body, Thaddeus pointed at it. "This is the closet body in resemblance to the criminal. Looks about three, maybe four days old. There appears to be a lance mark under the ribs, and the hands and feet are crucified. Someone took great care in burying this body."

Caiphas walked over, and, with that full-of-himself-attitude, tipped his nose up and said, "No. That's not him."

Thaddeus figured he didn't understand the unique circumstance of this body. "This body was crucified around the appropriate time. There's even a lance mark. And this body is buried in a Jewish cemetery. Now, unless you high priests crucify and bury your own kind, this body does not belong here. It has to be him."

The other man didn't even look at the corpse. "I'm telling you, that's not him. Get him out of my cemetery now and rebury the rest. Keep searching."

Thaddeus didn't like taking orders from this person. And he didn't intend to. "I say this is the criminal. The wounds all match up, as does the time." He called to the others. "This one! Grab him and bring him to Pilate."

Without another word, Thaddeus turned his back on Caiphas and left the high-and-mighty high priest standing by the unburied dead.


	9. That's Not Him

**Blessed Good Friday and Blessed Easter everybody! He is risen!**

 **Two short chapters today :)**

That's Not Him

 ** _H_** _e was so unrecognizable. Yes, he'd told the soldiers to make the punishment severe, but this? This was horrible. Worse than horrible. This was mutilation. No one ever deserved such punishment, and especially not a man who Pilate saw no wrong in. He'd only had him scourged in order to satisfy Caiphas, and he sure better be satisfied now._

 _"_ Ecce homo _!" Pilate expected to hear hateful words, but he didn't expect Caiphas to shout, without even batting an eye, "Crucify him!"_

 _They obviously were not seeing what Pilate was seeing. Were they blind? Had to be. How could they not see the vermillion liquid dripping on his bleached floors from a man who had been so brutally scourged, the wounds would never heal?_

 _But they continued to cry out death to this innocent man. The entire crowd._

 _Pilate was worried and turned quickly to Jesus, saying, "Listen to me. I have the power to crucify you or the power to release you."_

 _He hadn't even finished speaking before Jesus whispered, "You do not have power unless it was given to you from above. I have the power to lay down my life and take it up again. You only have what the One has given you."_

 _It didn't make sense! Why wasn't he begging Pilate to have mercy, to save his life? His eyes held no anger, no resentment, only understanding. Understanding? For what? Why? How this angered him!_

 _"_ _Crucify him as you wish! I will not be held accountable for this man's death. His blood shall not be upon me."_

 _He walked off. There. It was done. He wouldn't ever have to look into the eyes of the King of Jews again._

A knock came at the door.Pilate sauntered over and opened it. He wasn't quite sure if he should be happy to see Tribune or annoyed.

"What is it?"

"We found him, Pontius. Buried in a Jewish cemetery."

"Show me."

The two hurried outside where the body lay on the ground. Pilate could barely look at it. The nail marks in the hands and feet were evident. The criminal had even been scourged. But…this wasn't him. Pilate just had to glance at the face and new instantly. The Nazorean's facial features were softer, while this person's nose and jaw were jutted. The hair was too long, the beard too short. No, it wasn't him.

"Are you sure?" Thaddeus asked, obviously irritated. But Pilate didn't care.

"Yes, I'm sure! Now continue the search. In a few days, the criminal won't even be recognizable."

"Pilate," Tribune stated bluntly, "we have searched everywhere. There is nowhere else to search. The people of Jerusalem are starting to wonder why the body has not been found."

"And what do you propose?"

"I propose that we label this body as the crucified one. The wounds are the same, the appearances are the same—"

 _Not._

"—It will just be easier. I could order my men right now to go out and inform the others. We could bring in certain people for questioning, but keep everything quiet. _This_ is the Nazorean."

 _But it isn't,_ Pilate thought. He knew Tribune's proposal made sense, but Pilate didn't like it. Lying to the entire city? Sure, he'd done that before, but if word got out that somehow the _real_ body of Jesus was found, then what? But if they didn't label this body as the crucified criminal, a riot would most assuredly break out, maybe started by the man's followers. Or the Pharisees. Pilate did _not_ want to deal with them again.

"Fine. From now on, this body is Jesus of Nazareth. Go tell everyone he has been found, but don't give up the search for the real body. Bring in anyone you think is a follower of him. Question them until they give us answers."


	10. The Upper Room

The Upper Room

 **H** e watched silently as one of Jesus' followers snaked around the corner, glancing back only once to see if anyone was following him. Titus quickened his pace as soon as he lost sight of the other person. He peered around the corner of the house, disappointed and angry when his eyes met only an empty alley. Not ready to give up, he silently made his way along the wall and crept into the alley, encouraged when he heard voices to his right.

Gazing around the corner, he caught sight of the person he had followed. A follower of the Christ. The supposed Christ. He wasn't sure which disciples it was…maybe Peter? Yes, most definitely Peter. The other person he spoke was not one of the immediate twelve. A friend, perhaps. It was surprising for them to be out and about, especially around this time when the Romans had just proclaimed they would be searching houses. Well, technically, they wouldn't be. Not unless Titus could help them out. The body of Jesus had been found, as they said, but Titus knew the truth. They were lying in order to calm the crowd down, to quiet the Pharisees, and to continue their search in secrecy. It would be up to Titus to help them, and if he didn't, he wouldn't get his silver. But he didn't care about that. Not really. He would prefer to turn over those Jesus followers. He was sick of hearing them shout of forgiveness. Not that there had been much gospel talking the past few days. Not since their leader died. But, oh, the well. He had to die sometime, Titus figured.

But then the body went missing. Titus figured it would. They hadn't posted nearly enough guards at the tomb. Why wouldn't the disciples steal the body? All those time with their leader, they would listen and smile in awe, proclaiming him the Messiah. Yes, Titus had heard. And he'd gone sick from hearing it.

Titus didn't follow any religion. Or any god for that matter. He preferred to be on his own. He wasn't about to go fall at the knees at that Jesus and beg for forgiveness. Not that he could now, even if he wanted to—which he didn't. The Pharisees literally drove him insane. He couldn't stand them. So proud, and in a bad way. All those other gods people followed bored him. And besides, what could they do? They were in the sky, or Heaven. Whatever people preferred to call it.

Resuming his mission, Titus walked as close to the disciple and person as he could without revealing himself. He listened.

"He spoke to me. He was standing right before me! Standing in white, not a wound on him save the nail marks."

Peter probably said that part.

The other person answered, "Are you sure it was him?"

" _Ken._ He told me to tell his brothers and sisters he would be returning to them shortly."

"Hm."

"I'm telling you this because I trust you, Joseph."

 _Joseph?_ Titus thought. _Joseph of…Arimathea?_

"I know. What do you expect me to do with this information?"

"Inform the others. Everyone you know. Jesus is alive. But beware of the Romans. We don't want them to know what has happened. Not yet at least."

"I'll be on my way then."

Titus could even hear the doubt in his voice.

" _Toda._ And may the Risen Lord bless and keep you."

Titus heard a muffled commotion, and he peeked around the house to see the two men hugging. Peter pulled back, a smile on his face and tears in his eyes. "I must go tell the others."

As he began to turn, Titus ran back into the streets. He moseyed along past a bread stand, pretending to be interested in making a purchase. He glanced up occasionally until he finally saw Peter hurry out of the alley and turn right.

Titus followed closely behind.

After only a few moments of keeping pace with Peter (and hiding occasionally, when the other man peered over his shoulder), Peter reached his supposed destination. He jogged up the stairs, looked through the crowd one more time, and opened the door. Titus ran up the stairs after him and put his ear to the door. He could hear numerous people talking. He wasn't sure what they were saying, but he figured he had enough information in order to inform the Tribune.

" **W** here are they?"

"This one Upper Room. I saw the disciple go there himself."

Thaddeus didn't know whether he should believe this Titus or not. It sounded logical, but it also didn't. Was a follower of that King of the Jews really just prowling about? Apparently their trick worked. They thought the body of Jesus had been found.

Or…maybe they were just working to hide the real one.

"Take me there."

"What about my silver?"

Angered, Thaddeus said, "You'll get it when I know you are telling the truth."

"No, you give it to me now or else I won't take you there."

In one quick movement, Thaddeus drew out his sword, grabbed Titus' arm, thrust it behind him, and set the sharp blade to his neck. Titus whimpered in pain, and Thaddeus sneered with contempt.

"You take me to this Upper Room immediately or else I'll slit your neck. I won't even think twice about it, either. This world could do for less annoying idiots like you."

The other man reached his hands up in an attempt to stop the sword pressing against his skin, but Thaddeus only pressed harder. He watched as blood began to appear and slide down the neck of his victim. Really, how long could this imbecile hold out?

He heard mumbling.

"What was that?" He leaned closer to the man, still keeping a tight hold on the sword but pretending not to care if his grip slipped. And really, he didn't care.

"Fine! Now just let go!"

Thaddeus kept the sword there for a second longer, just to prove a point, then released. Titus grabbed his neck and gasp for air, shocked to see the blood imprints left on his hand. The Tribune smirked.

"Now, where is this place?"

Glaring, Titus said, "Follow me."

Thaddeus motioned towards his men and followed the other man.

Within a few minutes, they reached the supposed destination. By that time, Thaddeus' anger had reached its highest point. He really wanted to do something different than searching for this King of the Jews and questioning all of his followers. He'd just finished a battle a few days ago with some radicals, and now this? He needed to rest, and both Pilate and Caiphas refused him the luxury.

Titus tipped his head at the door of one house, and Thaddeus sure hoped his information proved logical, or else all this was for a waste. Nodding towards his men, Tribune ran up the stairs and kicked the door open with one swift movement. He charged in the house, adrenaline pumping. The dozen or so men sitting before him immediately jumped up from their positions and pressed themselves up against the wall. They glanced around frantically as the soldiers drew their swords out and grabbed each one of them by the arm. Thaddeus stood in the door entrance, watching.

When the commotion had calmed down, he called out, "Which one of you is Peter?"

He expected no one to answer. He expected them all to stay silent and Thaddeus would need to shout for them to answer, to threaten them, to drag all of them in for questioning. But surprisingly, almost within seconds of having asked the question, one man stood up and confidently identified himself as Peter.

"Answer me this: Are you a follower of Jesus, called the Christ?"

Now he certainly did _not_ expect an answer for that question. He didn't even know why he asked it. Curiosity. But anyway, it was too blunt of a question. Saying yes would almost condemn anyone to death, or life in prison. Especially now, with all this _disappearing body_ commotion. Saying no would only anger Thaddeus, and anyone could see how he was already angered.

However, the man did answer him. And not a whisper answer, either. He raised his chin, stepped forward, and proclaimed, "I am. He is my Lord and Savior, and I will follow him the rest of my days."

Thaddeus blinked, shocked at the straight-forward answer to his straight-forward question. Anyone that confident in their answer was most assuredly up to something.

He turned to one of his men. "Bring him."

"Hey!"

"Wait, you can't just take him!"

"What crime has he committed?"

"We demand to know what is going on!"

All the men shouted out questions to Thaddeus, but he refused to answer. He began walking out the door, fully expecting this Peter fellow to be behind him, as he had given the order, when a woman blocked his way.

"Mother!" someone called out.

Shocked at her bravery—or stupidity—Thaddeus didn't say anything, just stared at the woman. She was a bit older—certainly not young—with dark brown hair. She looked exhausted. Her eyes asked questions, held pleading in them.

" _Bevakasha_ , Tribune. Tell us why he is being taken."

Thaddeus figured he didn't need to answer her. Why should he? She was a useless woman. He could shove her to the ground and not think twice about it. He'd done it before, too. Not necessarily to that woman, but other ones when they stood in his way. Why would this female be any different?

But she was different. Slightly. Brave, yes. Stupid, most assuredly yes. But she didn't seem frightened. She was worried—about the supposed disappeared body or Peter?—and Thaddeus watched as she wrung her hands together and awaited an answer.

He figured he better answer so everyone would stop yelling and just get out of his way. He felt a headache coming on, and that was the last thing he needed.

"For questioning."

A man yelled from behind. "Why? What has he done?"

"He is suspected of kidnapping the body of Jesus the Nazorean from his tomb."

"But I heard the body had been found?" someone asked.

Thaddeus turned, angered. "It _has_ but someone took it out of the tomb, yes? We have factual evidence putting Peter at the scene." He didn't. Not really, but they didn't need to know that.

"When will he return?" the older woman asked, gently touching Thaddeus' hand that was gripped around his sword. He stared at the spot of contact as if he had been burned. Why was this woman so calm?

"If he is found innocent, he will be released in a few hours. If found guilty, he will be imprisoned and Pilate will inform him of his punishment. Could be jail time."

They gasped.

"Or death."

" _Lo, lo, lo…_ " another woman muttered as she began sobbing.

The older woman's eyes pooled with tears, but she didn't cry. Simply nodded and moved out of Thaddeus' way, whispering, "If it is your will…"

Thaddeus didn't really think it was his _will_ to question this Peter and lock him away in prison, and, if found guilty enough, condemned to death. He really didn't care about these disciples or the disappeared body. He would prefer for it to remain lost. But that high priest Caiphas insisted, and since Pilate wished to avoid a riot, or even this mishap, he made Thaddeus do all the work. Of course.

"Let's go," he ordered, and this time, no one called out questions as he walked out the door, Peter and his men following close behind.


	11. Peter is Questioned

**Yayyyy! I finally updated! Yeah, I know, it's been like...forever. But hey. School has been coming to it's close so finals, then I had my AP English exam which I finished today (yayyy! It was FOUR HOURS LONG) and I also am now overcome with Bucky and Tony feels (TEAM TONY!) so THE FEELS ARE AN EXCUSE OK.**

 **But please enjoy, tho :)**

 **ETA: lollllllll I just noticed I kept the SFKHAKSJDHA in there. I forgot to look up a Roman god, haha. Guess that's what happens when you don't proofread.**

Peter is Questioned

 **A** Roman soldier shoved him in the back, sending him tumbling forward to the stone floor. He winced in pain, but kept his mouth shut.

The soldier laughed and kicked him from behind, Peter losing his balance and his chin banging on the ground. He lay there, simply trying to comprehend what had happened. He saw sandaled feet walk by him and that person growling, "Just bring him in, unless you want to carry him."

The soldiers' laugh quieted as they grabbed both of his arms and pulled him to his feet. They pushed him, but this time he kept his balance and just kept walking.

Peter followed Tribune into a private room adorned with swords and helmets. They hung on the wall, decorated the desk. A small plant sat on a round table near the tall window. A large red rug flattened itself out on the floor. Peter almost felt guilty stepping on it with his dirty sandals.

Tribune pulled his sword out of its sheath and gently placed it his desk. The tip of the metal knocked against an ink stamp, sending it falling over on the wood surface. He grumbled as he set it aright. Then he slowly lowered himself into his chair and folded his hands on the desk, glancing up at Peter, who stood there in the middle of the room, surrounded by guards.

"Peter of…?"

"Galilee."

"Peter of Galilee. A follower of Jesus the Nazorean, eh?"

" _Ken._ " He figured if he had to say more, he would, but right now, one worded answers were good enough according to Tribune. He honestly didn't want to say anything that would get his friends in trouble. He didn't even quite know why he was here. Not for stealing any body, he knew. For there was no body to be stolen. Jesus had risen. And he believed that with all his heart.

"He died, didn't he? Was crucified?"

A lump formed in his throat as he remember how he'd denied Jesus three times that night. _"Ken."_

"How long had you followed him? How long did you know him?"

" _Shloshah_ years."

"Not that long of a time, really. Could you say you were good friends? Knew him well?"

"I would like to consider him my friend as well as my Lord and Savior."

"But you weren't at the crucifixion…?"

" _Lo._ I had denied him three times that night. Told everyone I didn't know him."

The Tribune seemed generally intrigued. "And why would you do a thing like that?"

"Because I was scared." That was honestly the truth. Peter had been scared to die. Scared to endure any form of pain. But the pain he endured that night—and even now, still—of remembering how he declared aloud—and sworn!—that never knew his Lord…worse than any physical hurt, he was sure. "If I could go back to that time, I would take back those words. Every day I beg my Lord to forgive me, and I can only hope he has."

"But he is dead. He can't hear you."

"He's with his Father."

"Who's his Father? I heard he was only a carpenter's son."

"His Father is my father. And yours. And everyone's."

The Tribune seemed generally confused—and angry—so he proceeded to change the topic. "I take it you are aware of exactly why you are here."

"Not really." Peter shifted his weight, uncomfortable. He glanced at the men surrounding him, a white-knuckle grip on their swords. He didn't want to be afraid, but he was.

 **T** haddeus eyed the man before him, shuffled through his papers, and said, "Friday evening Pontius Pilate placed a notice on the tomb of Jesus the Nazorean, instructing it not to be disturbed. That notice was ignored on Sunday morning when the body was stolen."

"Who rolled away the tomb?"

"So you were there!"

Aghast, he sputtered, "No. I mean, the tomb would have to be rolled away from the body to supposedly be stolen."

"Hm. What were you doing Sunday morning?"

"Hiding."

"From whom?"

"The Romans. The Jews."

"So are you admitting you are guilty?"

"Guilty of betraying my Lord, yes. Guilty of stealing his body, no. Because it hasn't been stolen."

Had he not heard what Thaddeus had said? Obviously not. The body had been stolen, or else why would he have taken Peter? Really, did this man not have a brain? "It _has._ I went to the tomb myself."

"I didn't say the body wasn't gone. I simply said it hadn't been stolen."

All right, this was getting frustrating. Thaddeus just wanted a straight answer. Why did he have to add all in all this extra, unimportant information? Yes or no. Simple.

Thaddeus pressed himself against his desk. He stared Peter down, not flinching once as he continued to make eye contact. Peter fidgeted, and Tribune saw his opening. "Then where is it? Where is the body Jesus of Nazorean?"

Instead of continuing to squirm, the man kept both feet solid on the ground, raised his head, and said, "He isn't here. He has risen, just like he said he would."

Guffaws erupted in the background. Two soldiers, the two who had shoved the man on the ground before, came marching into the room, unable to control their laughter. They doubled over and tried to catch their breath.

"What are you doing in here? Didn't I tell you to leave us alone?"

One said: "Uh, no you didn't, but did you hear what this Jew just said?"

"I was _trying_ to _,"_ Thaddeus muttered, grabbing his sword.

The soldier continued to sputter, his friend along with him. "He just said his Master—the crazy blasphemer who I saw be crucified—had come alive from his tomb and rose up to the Father!"

"I _heard,"_ Thaddeus said as he stood, really wishing those two would leave. But they didn't even seem to notice him standing there anymore. They simply wobbled around, as if half-drunk, and continued to rant about the crazy notion.

"Do you even know what happened at that crucifixion? Oh, that's right"—Red-Head came right to Peter's face—" _you weren't there."_

The soldier with a scar on his face cut in. "Should I remind you the details?"

"There is no need," Peter said, which surprised Thaddeus.

"Oh, all right, well how about I remind you of when he was imprisoned? People often seem to forget that part of his torture. I was there when he hung by his hands. It was quite funny to watch… He didn't say much, which got a little boring after a while, not even when we—yes, there were more of us—punched him in the ribs, stomach. He couldn't bend over to defend himself, which made it all the more fun."

"That's enough," Thaddeus insisted, but they continued.

"What about the scourging?" Red-Head asked. "Were you there for that? Did you see all the different weapons we could have used on him? I know the soldier who whipped him. I know all six of them. They told me they were so sore the next day, they could hardly get out of bed. Each of them had to scrub for an hour to try and get off all the blood that had splattered when he was being whipped. Cleaning the white marble floor was even harder. Blood had flung so far away, even past where the crowd had stood, watching the spectacle. If you would like to see, I can show you…? I'm sure there is still some blood left for you to gawk over."

"All right, get out." Thaddeus walked from behind his desk. It wasn't that he minded the disciple being scared, or even a little tormented. Please. He would love to do that himself, but really those soldiers just annoyed him. If anyone was going to cause that Peter to writher under someone's gaze and flinch because of certain harsh words, Thaddeus wanted it to be his gaze and the words to be out of his mouth.

"Oh, come on, Tribune!" Red-Head complained.

Was he really not even scared? Time to change that.

In one swift movement, Thaddeus, sword in hand, swiped it near the soldier's legs. Though they were mainly covered in thin strips of armor, the part about his calf was not. Within seconds, Thaddeus had finished his task and the Roman lay on the ground, grabbing his injured leg in pain. He howled and cursed, the blood seeping through his fingers.

Calmly, Thaddeus walked over to his desk, grabbed a strip of cloth, and wiped the blade. He then returned it to its scabbard and turned towards the soldiers.

"I do hope you don't drip blood on my rug. It was a gift from someone I look up to. I would hate to have you sit in this very room and scrub the rug spotless."

With eyes that shot daggers, the injured man came to a wobbly stand. The blood seeped down his leg, bright vermillion against the gray armor. He attempted to wipe it up, but failed as a single droplet dripped on the ground, nearly missing the precious rug. He glanced up at Tribune, glared, then smeared the blood away with his sandal.

Both of the soldiers nodded their heads—one more resistant than the other—and walked out of the room.

Then it was just Thaddeus and Peter.

"Sorry you had to see that," Thaddeus apologized as he walked near the other man. He glanced him over. Honestly, the man didn't seem that scared. Why? Had he not just witnessed what had happened? Thaddeus wouldn't have thought twice about taken the soldier's entire leg, but that most likely would have resulted in a great quantity of blood on the floor, and he seriously couldn't risk getting a single drop of his rug. A great man had given that to him.

Curiosity tugged at him. "Why aren't you afraid?"

"I have no reason to be," the man said, staring straight ahead.

"Are you not afraid of what I could do to you? At the word you could be thrown into prison for life. Without even proof—simply because I said the word. I could have you beaten—scourged. Or, maybe you would like to be crucified like your supposed-Lord was? What do you think about that?"

Silence. Did he have no answer? Any other person would be shaking where they stood. Any other person would have confessed after five minutes. But not this person. Why did he find it so important to hide his _Lord's_ body? And deny it? It honestly didn't even make any sense. Peter had seemed so sincere when he spoke of denying his Lord, and how he wished he could take that back. Then why did he lie? Lie about hiding his Lord's body? He was being a hypocrite. Either that or he was telling the truth and he had no idea where the body was.

But he hadn't really said that, had he? _"He isn't here. He has risen, just like he said he would."_ What in Jupiter's name did that even mean? Risen? How? To whom?

Thaddeus grew irritated. He didn't even want to look at Peter anymore. He just wanted to think. But he still needed to question him. He just didn't want to now.

"All right," Thaddeus growled, grabbing Peter's arm and pulling him out of the room, "let's go."

"Where?" He seemed generally concerned.

"To a cell. You can stay there until I figure out what to do with you."


	12. Claudia Procula

**Annnnnd I'm back! Slightly... It sure has been a while since I've added on to this story, hasn't it? Well, what can I say. Life took over. As did Netflix...but here I am with another chapter! Don't expect me to publish like...10 more chapters in 10 days, though, LOL. This was just something I whipped up because I figured I better. Hope you guys enjoy it! I have some more ideas for the next coming chapters, but I just gotta get around to writing them. Enjoy, and please review!**

 **(This has not been proofread...so there may be some spelling/grammatical errors...what can I say? I was lazy)**

Claudia Procula

Evening was coming, so Claudia hurried through the halls of the palace, trying not to be caught unexpectedly by her husband. She simply wanted to get this job done before dark came.

She'd heard that Peter of Galilee had been imprisoned by Tribune Thaddeus, the information told by himself to Pilate. Pilate hadn't seemed to care. Just nodded and closed the door. Claudia had never seen her husband so cold-hearted. Sure, she knew he'd sentenced people to death. It was a weekly, criminals coming in and being trialed, him having to make the call. Plus, he'd sentenced Jesus to his death. Despite Claudia's pleading. She knew Jesus was holy. Quite holy. She'd dreamed about him, but not in the way her husband thought. She'd suffered during that dream, more than she'd ever known was capable. She'd seen all that would happen to him—the crowning of thorns, the scourging, the crucifixion. And she'd agonized, while sleeping and while awake afterwards. The dream had seemed so long, and she'd seen so much during it. How he came to this Earth, the death of his foster father, his missionary work, the miracles… So many miracles. She'd seen him suffer as well, and that had been so horrible, so wrong, that she'd pleaded to her husband to let that man free. He'd listened. Slightly. Tried to convince the crowd to let him go, but they'd begun to riot—Claudia had saw. So he'd had him scourge. Claudia hadn't watched, but she'd seen the aftermath. So much blood, so many tears by some, and so much anger by others.

Claudia closed her eyes now, remembering. She remembered walking through the halls, the tall marble pillars on both sides of her, and in between the gaps of those pillars, the blood scene. She'd side-stepped guffawing Roman soldiers, some covered in blood, others not. She'd glanced away at the sight of the scourging weapons used, the vermillion liquid still dripping off the tips onto the ground.

And she'd seen those two women mopping up the blood. Bent on all fours, using some sort of garment to mop it up. She immediately recognized them as Jesus' Mother and one follower, Mary of Magdala. His Mother wasn't crying, simply wiping up the blood, silent. The other woman was, though, wailing uncontrollably, barely able to do the chore.

Claudia had barely been able to continue watching them, so overcome with emotions. She'd wiped the tears from her eyes and hurried off, not looking back.

Now she walked through the hallway of the prison, the walls seeming to cave in around her. She heard the drip drop of water, the cling clank of metal chains, and the clomp clomp of soldier's boots. She was hardly ever really terrified. Those few times being during her dream, when she knew Jesus was going to be condemned to death, and this very moment.

But she had to do this, and she had to do it quickly.

Making her way through the prison, she turned left and was greeted by a dead end. Grumbling, she reversed directions and continued straight.

Prisoners were being held both on her left and right. Most stayed quiet, sitting in the back of their cells, huddle in a corner. Others slowly made their way to the cell door and watched her walk by. She could feel their stare. The rest seemed to call out to her, making rude comments as she hurried by.

She was moving so quickly she barely noticed the two young Roman soldiers in the cell to her right. She stopped abruptly and turned to them.

"Were you the soldiers at the tomb this morning?"

They jumped to a stand and hurried to the cell door. The one with brown hair answered first, "Yes, uh, yes we were."

"And my husband is keeping you here?"

They looked at each other.

"Yes. They are convinced we are lying."

"And are you?"

The burnette looked at his friend. He nodded towards Claudia, then sighed, coming ever so closer to the wife of Pontius Pilate.

"You can't tell anyone we told you this."

"Josias!" the friend shouted in a whisper. "She's Pilate's wife."

"Stop," Claudia called. "You can tell me. My husband and I aren't exactly on speaking terms. If you tell me the truth, I will do everything in my power to have you removed from this cell with no charges whatsoever."

The one called Josias seemed terribly frightened. Claudia could see him shaking. He didn't look very old. Maybe eighteen. He glanced over at his friend. Something seemed to be communicating between the two, yet no words were exchanged. Claudia grasped the cell bars and came closer, hoping the two would tell her the truth if she appeared more personally connected instead of keeping her distance.

Josias leaned in, now only inches from Claudia's face.

"You'll release us?"

"I promise."

"All right... We weren't tied up, like we told Tribune. Someone else told us to say that."

"Who?"

"I can't say. He'll sentenced me to death. He's done it before."

Claudia instantly knew of whom this boy was thinking of.

He continued. "And there wasn't anyone at the tomb. It was just us."

"What happened to the body?" Claudia gripped the cell bars in anxiety.

"It disappeared. There was a light, and a noise...then the stone cracked in two and that Nazarene was gone-his garments folded up. I swear that's the truth."

Claudia stepped back, completely confused and yet totally not. She knew this was what had happened. She knew the body had not been stolen. But...where did the Nazarene go?

"Thank you," Claudia whispered as she hurried off to her previous destination.

"Wait! You're going to let us free, right? If you don't they'll hang us."

Claudia nodded. "I promise."

Then she left them, and continued a few more steps to the next cell, the one she knew Peter, an Apostle of Jesus, sat in.

And there he was. Sitting on the ground, hands folded in prayer, head bowed, eyes closed. His lips moved as he formed each word of whatever he was saying. His brow furrowed as if in pain.

Not knowing Claudia stood there, Peter didn't open his eyes. He continued to pray, his eyes shut tightly as he mumbled.

Claudia cleared her throat.

Peter jumped up and rushed over to the cell door. His body seemed fatigue; his eyes looked tired. But there was something else about him. Something oddly out of place due to his rugged appearance, and yet it totally belonged there.

Happiness? Yes, he seemed...happy to Claudia. And she didn't have the slightest idea why. He should be pacing the cell room, angry. He should be trying to find a way to escape. But it wasn't. Instead, he prayed; and now he was standing before her, not saying a single thing-just waiting for her to speak.

She spoke quickly and quietly. "My husband and the Tribune are wrongly imprisoning you. I know this to be true. You are innocent. I am going to release you, and you must go back to your friends and hide from the Romans. If they find you, they will kill you. Is that understood?"

Peter couldn't believe it. Here was Pilate's wife-Claudia-standing before him as he himself stood in a prison cell. She was wearing a beautiful white dress with as blue veil. Her hair was long and curling around her shoulders. She very much looked like the wife of Pontius Pilate. She looked like she spent her days sleeping, reading, and listening to her husband. And yet here she was, standing before Peter, a key gribbed in her pale hand.

"How did you get that key?" was all Peter could manage to ask.

"I am Pilate's wife. I have my ways." She quickly began to unlock the cell door as she continued speaking. "There are not as many soldiers in this prison as usual. They are all with the Tribune, secretly searching for the body of Jesus. Once you leave here, you must be careful in the streets. Everyone knows of your imprisonment. If even one soldiers notices you have escaped, they will capture you and kill you."

Peter stepped out of the cell, feeling dazed, confused, and elated. How was this even happening?

"Now go," Claudia said, pointing. "That way."

Peter almost left, but then he turned and said, "How do I know you won't tell someone where I'm going?"

And without a bit of doubt or shakiness in her voice, Pilate's wife raised her chin and said, "Because I believe the same thing you do."


End file.
